To Get Me Through This Semi Charmed Life
by TheRockNRollBeauty
Summary: Ivan is the son of a Russian mob boss sent to live in America.  Yet, Ivan finds it difficult to kill the criminal instinct that has been instilled in him since birth. Human/Small Town AU. Drug use, eventual violence and death. Sadly not a RusAme story.
1. Chapter 1

**My first AU, yo. Normally I don't like them/write them, but I've been wanting to do mafia!Russia for a while now. Of course, I came up with this mess….**

**I don't intend to offend anyone with my description of small town America: all I know is that meth has become a problem in some small towns. And that's all the basis I have for this story. So please forgive this California girl if I'm off base. **

**This was originally a long oneshot but I decided to split it up into two chapters. And it's **_**dark**_**. Holy crap, is it dark. It's not even a true RusAme story! And the title sucks bad. I only used it cause the song "Semi Charmed Life" is about crystal meth addiction. sigh...**

**It's also **_**badly**_** OOC. I mean, I suppose it is an AU but….ugh. Ivan's character…I butchered it so bad, I'm sorry.**

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><p>Ivan Braginski stood, leaning up against the wooden post of the fence half surrounding the cracked, vacant lot. It was summertime, the warm wind tugging at the black coat that set him apart from many of the other young men in the small, Midwestern town. Indeed, Ivan Braginski was a different breed from the all-American, lower middle class Joes that were his<em><em>—<em>_ _ahem___—__ "clients."

Firstly, Ivan Braginski was no slouch when it came to the seamier side of the life, the brutality and violence and underhand deals. He had grown up with it all his life.

Secondly, Ivan Braginski was Russian born. His accent, along with an imposing frame, tended to isolate him from anyone whom he could not intimidate. The way people looked at him whenever he spoke, or whenever he accidentally slipped into Russian, made him wonder if this town was not aware that the Soviet Union had fell and were still living under the shadowy fear of the Red.

But Ivan Braginski had been a normal child up until his early teens in one respect: he had had a mother. Ivan Braginski had a father too, but it was that man's fault that Ivan was nothing like the other children.

But when Ivan was thirteen something happened that made him _completely _different from many of the others his age.

Not all thirteen-year-old children came home from school one day to find their mothers shot dead in the foyer.

And not all thirteen-year-old children knew exactly _why_ such a thing had happened. Not all thirteen-year-old children knew that it happened because of who his father was.

His father. _Ivan hated his father_.

There were only two things that Ivan's father had done right in his life, two things that seemed diametrically opposite to each other. One was that he allowed Ivan to go to America, away from the danger and bloodshed he would experience as the son of the Братва. The second thing, was that, by the age of thirteen, his father had ingrained in Ivan all the chilling knowhow to succeed in a brutal and violent world.

Ivan knew his mother had never been happy with his father's want to train Ivan in the ways of the family business. She had tried to keep Ivan softened, tried to instill in him that little bit of childish innocence. When his father had taught him to load a handgun his mother had let him sit on her lap while she knitted him the long, flowing scarf that he wore even in the dry heat of the Midwest. When his father had dragged him to poker games and cocktails parties his mother had scooped him up in her arms after a bad dream and rocked him to sleep.

But then on that day both of these sides met and ended with a puddle of blood on the floor of Ivan's home and a bullet in his mother's head. That day Ivan discovered it had been his mother's wish for him to escape the danger of life in Russia and go to the States, to live with her parents.

So Ivan decided to honor her wish, once it became clear that his father no longer wanted anything to do with him. Once his father had decided that Ivan had become too soft to succeed him in the business. So Ivan left Russia, thinking to leave the life his father had wanted for him behind.

But after a few months of living in the States Ivan realized something. He realized that even by escaping Russia and his father, he could never escape what his father had ingrained in him. The instinct, that cutting edge, killer instinct, had been instilled in him, had become a part of him.

So Ivan began to build himself up in the small town. It wasn't at all like the high class and urban environment that he had grown up in, but that made it easier for a boy barely fourteen years of age.

Deciding that trade in weapons was still out of his league, and less than useful in a small town with no amount of faction violence, Ivan turned to what he soon discovered the classmates in the local schools craved.

Drugs. It was painfully simple.

Over the years, Ivan prospered in his trade, aided by the fact that there were no familial or parental checks on him. His grandparents never bothered him. In recent years, they had grown more and more out of it, uninvolved in his life, growing steadily more senile and bedridden. Ivan could have had an entire drug lab of his own in his basement. Of course, he had no need, he left all of the science of the process up to an impressionable computer geek, Eduard, who in turn had roped in his two younger brothers. Anything else Ivan needed wasn't difficult to get. Despite now being just shy of twenty, he could network and intimidate brilliantly, with all the skill and finesse that his father had ingrained within him.

Thus, in a few years, Ivan became well known amidst the youth of the town, and had set up his own comfortable little ring. It was never too difficult to cater to the people's needs. Being a small town that eschewed anything "city-like" or "urban," they weren't in need of any of the higher grade stuff that Ivan couldn't bring in.

He knew the regulars who bought from him, some were friends, or as close to a "friend" as you could be with someone like Ivan Braginski.

There was the spaced out Canadian boy who would drag his tall, equally oblivious friend to buy weed off of him. Ivan always had a hard time figuring out where the other boy came from, eventually assuming that he was from someplace in Europe.

There was the French exchange student who bought speed, touting it as the ultimate drug when it came to stimulating one's sex drive.

There were the German brothers who bummed XTC of him and took weekend trips to the underground raves in the nearby cities. Oftentimes, a dark haired boy with a similar accent would buy some 2CB and tag along.

Ivan found himself selling liquor too, some made in Eduard's basement as well, in order to cover all of the bases. Thus, he often catered to a burnt out British boy who looked as if he peaked in middle school, and several others who were already well on their way to becoming full- fledged alcoholics.

However, despite the variety of clients, for this town, the youth's drug of choice was an obvious one: meth.

Out of all of his buyers, Ivan found the meth users to be the worst. Though, perhaps, most of this animosity was because of one individual.

An annoying, jittery, nineteen year old meth head by the name of Alfred Jones.

Normally, Ivan would have nothing to do with an obnoxious, over confident drug addict aside from selling his wares to him.

Ivan wouldn't have paid the likes of Alfred Jones any notice if it was not for his mother.

Ms. Jones was a nice, beautiful widow who had taught Ivan when he had still been in high school. Though she was an older woman, she had not lost any youthful radiance, with her bright blue eyes and blonde hair that matched the golden cross she wore about her neck. Ms. Jones had been the only teacher that Ivan had ever admired, the only person in that wasteland of education that truly connected with him, that truly took the time to listen to him. She was fascinated with his Russian origin, asking about the nature and culture of his homeland, and together they would discuss the literature and books that Ivan had grown up with, and those authors that he admired: Tolstoy, Nabokov, Pushkin, and Chekhov. He would recommend books for her and she in turn would introduce him to some of her favorite American writers and recommend their best works. It soon became ritual for him, and Ivan even found himself heaping more responsibilities on Eduard and Toris in order to be able to talk to Ms. Jones.

It was through Ms. Jones that Ivan had learned about Alfred. He had seen the exuberant, obnoxious and popular young man around__—__ he had bought drugs off of Ivan several times, but his existence had seemed insignificant until Ms. Jones revealed that Alfred was her son.

Subsequently, whenever she mentioned Alfred, Ivan would feel a coil of heat brew in his stomach, clenching his insides.

Oftentimes, the things Ms. Jones said about Alfred were less than positive. She would bemoan to Ivan about how she wished her own son was more like him, more sophisticated and polite. She complained to Ivan about how Alfred would stay out late at night, even during weekdays, and was hardly ever at home. She would tell Ivan that, when Alfred _was_ home, they would get into arguments and Alfred would storm off and she wouldn't see him for days, all the while fearing that something terrible had happened to him, as mothers do. However, after saying something negative, she would quickly retract and say that she loved Alfred regardless, because he was all she had, and that he truly was not a bad child, just "misdirected," or just "going through a phase." But Ivan knew how Alfred was__—__ he had seen him at his worse, desperately begging and buying speed and crack off of him.

Gradually, his frustration with Alfred grew and grew.

One day in particular had stood out to Ivan. It had been his mother's birthday, the day his annoyance with Alfred turned into something darker.

Before, Ivan would have simply skipped school on this day, leaving any deals or anything business related up to Eduard and his brothers. But on that particular day, that year, Ivan found he could not bear missing school if it meant not speaking to Ms. Jones. If there was ever a day he needed a pair of comforting arms, it would be the first of June.

That day Ivan was in math class, the only class that he shared with Alfred and the only class in which he elected to sit in the back, which, coincidentally, was straight behind the loudmouthed boy. Ivan had been absentmindedly punching holes in his paper with his pencil, when he heard Alfred begin to talk in a stage whisper to the boy next to him. Ivan listened intently, and with growing anger as he heard Alfred's plans to throw a large party at his house next weekend

Alfred then said that he would have no problem coming up with any extra "fun" and turned slightly to give Ivan a wink that turned the Russian boy's blood into streams of icy rage.

When the other boy expressed concern over Alfred mother possibly catching them, he merely snorted.

"Oh, don't worry about that, my mom's so fucking stupid__—__ "

It was then that Ivan raised up his balled fist and slammed it onto his desk with a resounding crack, at the same time crushing his pencil into dust. The entire class started, Alfred whipping his head around so fast that his glasses almost fell off his face. The teacher gaped, dry erase marker dropping from his hand. Ivan merely stared at his desk, which now had a long crack running through it.

After that he had been ordered to the administrator's office, where he had managed to wedge his large frame into one of the small plastic chairs in the waiting room. At that point, Ivan was grateful that no one else was present, as the frustration and stress of the day took his toll on him and his eyes began to wet from tears.

Suddenly, at the sound of the door clicking, Ivan raised his head, fear clutching at him over the fact that someone would see him like this__—__

But his fear melted the instant he saw blonde hair and surprised blue eyes as Ms. Jones entered with a stack of papers in hand.

"I-Ivan?" She then noticed his tears, and her surprise softened a little. "Dear, what's wrong?"

Ivan had simply looked at her, tears continuing to roll down his face. Without another word, Ms. Jones had set down the papers and walked over to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, shushing him quietly and rocking him back and forth as his tears grew into shaking, audible sobs.

Ivan had clung to her tightly and just cried, wanting so badly for this to be everyday, everyday to go home and be greeted by a soft hug and a waiting ear.

And yet, everyday Ms. Jones would go home to that _pig, _that idiotic son who had absolutely no respect for her, had no idea what a beautiful and intelligent and loving woman she was. What a wonderful _mother_ she was.

He remembered talking to Ms. Jones on the day of his graduation and hearing her hopes for Alfred to mellow out after high school. She said that he was looking for local jobs, in hope to raise enough money to go off to college.

But Ivan knew that things had instead turned for the worse. Alfred's drug use had been nonexistent in high school next to what he was doing now.

It had been more than a year since he had last seen Ms. Jones, but Alfred frequented him several times a week. Ivan recalled the first time that Alfred had bought meth off him, and how Ivan had been hesitant. He'd seen it take a toll on the other kids that he had sold to, as well as their families. But his killer business instinct could not refuse a sale, and thus he had given Alfred the poison.

Ivan had watched Alfred degenerate slowly ever since that day, though he had yet to exhibit the physical symptoms of addiction, and could only imagine the living hell that the boy put his mother through every day.

Though, Ivan had seen some evidence of it. Once, Alfred had tried to pawn off jewelry onto Ivan, gold inlaid women's jewelry, peppered with cheap stones. Once it had been a little golden cross, and the sight of that boy handing it over to him as if it was nothing but quick change for a high made his heart clench with anger.

So gradually, Ivan had come to hate Alfred.

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><p><strong>Ms. Jones isn't supposed to be anyone really, Alfred just needed a mom. I hope that no one thinks Ivan is in love with her…it's just supposed to be like he wants a mom, and he doesn't feel like Alfred deserves her. <strong>

**Why the individual drugs for the nations? They're kind of just random things I've picked up from other stories/people's headcanons. I mean, obviously Canada/Netherlands are weed, and Germany&Prussia would be ecstasy because of the German rave/club scene. Austria's I just remember reading somewhere. France is definitely amphetamines though, since it increases your sex drive….And even though most of the time I'd rather think of American using coke or heroin, meth fit his personality better in this case…**

**What am I even on. I swear this will be the last drug related story for a long time. I **_**will**_** be writing something fluffy. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Kinda surprised by the positive response to this thing, ehehe. I kinda feel like the second half disappoints…**

**It wasn't my intention to make Alfie totally unredeemable, but considering the story is told through Ivan's point of view, it sort of comes across that way. Also, it's the only way that Ivan can really….justify the actions that he takes. **

**Pairing wise? There's no real pairings, it was just a random twoshot I thought of. Though it was originally going to be kinda RusAme-ish, but i dunno…**_**this**_** happened instead. Ugh. I'm kind of frustrated with this. It doesn't even seem like a Hetalia story. Sigh.**

**So, on to the final part, in which Ivan deals with a person like Alfred the only way he knows how.**

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><p>Ivan feels the gun, a TT-80, that is tucked into the waistband under his coat. It is a habit, a tic ingrained in him from an early age, just to make sure his faithful companion is always there.<p>

"Hey! Yo, Ivan!"

Ivan looks up to see a young blonde boy bobbing across the cracked lot towards him. The lot was were Ivan held many of his business negotiations, as it was away from any nearby houses and surrounded by trees and brush. It was peaceful, and most of the time Ivan enjoyed even just standing around, eyes closed.

But the appearance of Alfred Jones immediately shatters any calm emotion that Ivan has.

Alfred stops his exuberant jog a few steps away from Ivan, hands in the pockets of his letterman jacket, worn over a bright blue shirt with the Superman logo on it.

"What's up, dude?" He raises his hand in a high five that Ivan does not return.

Alfred lowers his hand, realizing that Ivan is in the mood for nothing other than business. He shoves his hands back into his jacket pockets.

"Do you have it?"

Ivan gives a curt nod.

"I do."

Alfred claps his hands together and smiles. Ivan raises his eyebrows. He didn't know if Alfred's increased exuberance was a result of his abuse, or if the boy is just naturally hyper. Perhaps it is a combination of both.

Ivan holds out his hand.

"Half a gram is fifty, one hundred for the full."

Alfred snorts, and Ivan's face twitches.

"I don't have any money, dude, you know that."

"I see. Then what are we doing here, Jones?"

Alfred again flashes his prize winning and _oh so fake_ smile.

"I said I didn't have _money_. I got something better."

Alfred reaches into his pocket and pulls out something, dropping it into Ivan's outstretched palm, the metal cool even against Ivan's naturally chilled skin.

The sun dying behind the trees glints off the golden ring settled into his palm. Ivan felt a heat rise up in his chest.

Ivan holds the band up closer. He can see something engraved on the interior curve, lovingly etched in cursive.

_My love, my life, my everything. Amelia E. Jones, 7/4/82._

Ivan feels his stomach curl with some uncontrollable emotion that is threatening to roil to his surface.

Ivan looks up to Alfred, still smiling expectantly, the Russian boy's eyes flat and cold.

"Last time, Jones, I am remembering telling you that I did not want to see anymore jewelry."

But Alfred reaches out and taps at the band, his grin growing more cat-like.

"Yeah, well this is different! It's got like, sentimental value, and stuff. And besides, I think it's the real deal! 24 carat gold, that 'lil sucker."

Ivan throws the wedding band back at Alfred, no longer trying to contain the rage in his strange purple eyes.

"I will _not_ be taking this, _Jones._"

Alfred tries to catch the band but it clinks to the asphalt. Ivan's words sink in, and he looks up. Desperation sudden enters Alfred's eyes at the notion of a denied high.

"B-But dude, you don't get it, I'm all outta money, I've pawned away almost everything in my house, and I don't want to turn to stealin' bro, 'cause I'm not good at it and I'm really fucking clumsy__—__ "

"I do not want to be hearing your pathetic stories and excuses. If you do not have any money then I have no business with you. I will be taking to leave."

Ivan brushes past Alfred with no lack of strength, pushing the boy harshly out of his way. His emotions are about to boil over.

_He needs to get out of here and away from Alfred before either of them do anything stupid. Before Ivan decides to do what he's always wanted to do to Alfred. _

There's a shuffling of feet and and a low growl behind him that pricks at Ivan's ears.

He hears a metallic _click_ and barely has time to turn around as Alfred lunges at him, blur of a black pocketknife in hand.

Ivan snarls and makes to move for the TT-80, a gift from his father, from under his shirt but Alfred is upon him and Ivan has to use his hand to grab at Alfred's knife wielding arm as the boy seizes the other. Both hands locked together, Ivan growls as he feels himself being pushed back; Alfred had a strength that his body type belied, maddened by his denied high__—__

Alfred pushes down with his knife arm until the tip is hovering above Ivan's nose, who clenches his teeth and tries to force the shorter boy away, to disarm him__—__

Using his height and significant bulk to his advantage, Ivan tugs Alfred upwards, making him lose his balance, before grabbing his wrist tightly and twisting it, causing Alfred to shriek and drop the knife.

Ivan shoves Alfred away hard in the chest, but the blonde merely growls, clenching his fists and approaching the Russian boy again.

"You fucking dick__—__ " He raises a fist, intending to slam it into the taller boy's face.

But Ivan knocks Alfred to the ground with a swift punch to the stomach, the blonde crying out in pain as his back and elbows hit the pavement hard.

"You fucking asshole, you fucking son of a__—__ "

Alfred freezes, eyes drawn to the barrel of the TT-80 that Ivan has pulled from his waistband. The Russian is pointing it, unflinchingly, towards the downed man, _no_, _not even a man, merely a child, a cowardly, unworthy, cowardly child___—__

Ivan feels a flare of anger and he shoots once, hitting Alfred in the shoulder, making him scream as the hot lead tore through his jacket and into his body. And it was that one shot, the one shot that wasn't even fatal, that sealed the young blonde's fate.

Ivan was the son of the _Bratva_. He knew not to leave unfinished business. But Ivan himself knew the conflict that arose between killing someone and letting them go. He knew Alfred, despite all his bravado, was nothing but a coward inside, a coward who had turned to _stealing his mother's jewelry_ to pay for his fix. He knew that his shot had hurt and scared Alfred, who was now letting tears of pain fall down his terrified face. The terrified, pathetic side of Alfred would learn his lesson, would never speak of what happened, would never try to cross Ivan again.

But Ivan also knew of another side to Alfred. He knew that Alfred liked to put on a brave face, to stand up in the name of justice, even if his personal life was less than lustrous. He may also decide to tell the police, to demonize Ivan, and set himself up as the hero who saved the small town from the filthy, drug dealing Russian. Ivan smirked. Alfred would make a great politician, perhaps even a great president.

_н__et, correction_. _Would have made_.

Ivan continues to stare at Alfred, who has turned onto his stomach and is trying to drag himself, nails curling into the cracked asphalt as he tries to pull away from Ivan, who has lowered his gun by a fraction. Sobs and strings of curses emit from the boy as he clutches his shoulder tightly, looking over it to stare at the ominous Russian with tearful, _terrified_ eyes.

Ivan takes a few steps forward and straddles Alfred's body, staring down hard at the quivery boy. He takes a booted foot and presses through Alfred's fingers into the wound on his shoulder, causing the blonde to scream again.

_To think that this piece of trash could come from a woman who was so good and kind was sickening. _

Ivan grabs a handful of Alfred's hair and pulls him up to his knees, the bare skin under his torn jeans scraping against the asphalt. Alfred's scream has dissolved into small sobs, he clutches at himself tightly as he feels Ivan's harsh fingers tug at his head.

"I-van__—__ stop__—__ "

Ivan presses the barrel of the gun to the back of Alfred's head. The boy's breath hitches at the feeling of cool metal against his scalp.

"I-Ivan…Ivan, please, please don't…" The fear is painfully evident in the usually cheerful voice as he begs.

Ivan silences any more pleas by pressing the gun harder against Alfred's head and seizing his injured arm, twisting it behind him.

Alfred doesn't scream again but lets out a loud sob, squirming frantically against the grip Ivan has on his arm, intense pain shooting up his limbs.

_Why did Ms. Jones have to rely on such a coward? Why did Ms. Jones have to suffer because of a filthy liar who happened to be her son?_

Ivan lets Alfred alone for a moment, listening as the boy's sobs slowly degenerates into quiet moans and choked cries. Eventually, Alfred begins to speak quietly, whimpering through the pain. Ivan cocks his head, sensitive ears picking up what Alfred was saying.

"M-mom…Mom, help me…please."

Ivan's chest tightens in both anger and pity at the pathetic boy, begging for his life and crying for his mother before him.

Alfred degenerates even more, body crumpling into the asphalt, only held up by Ivan's fingers twisted in his hair.

"Mommy…please….p-please…I'm sorry….I'm s-so sorry…"

Ivan twists Alfred's arm further back, causing him to moan in pain. He grits his teeth, trying to silence Alfred with agony, but the boy continues his broken cries.

"Mom…please…"

Ivan audibly snarls, yanking Alfred's head back hard into the gun barrel. He clicks the chamber, the next bullet sliding into place. Alfred cries a little louder at the sound, utter panic and terror making him numb and weak.

"P-please….Mom…I'm sorry…I…I lo__—__ "

Ivan pulls the trigger and the back of Alfred's head explodes in a shower of blood and brain matter.

The force of the shot sends the body toppling forward, Ivan releasing the spasming arm as Alfred's forehead smacked wetly against the asphalt.

Ivan stands still for only a moment, before tucking the hot pistol back into his waistband. He sighs and closes his eyes. He feels release. He feels relieved. He had done what Ms. Jones had never been able to do. He had punished Alfred.

_He had saved her from a life taking care of this coward. _

He turns over Alfred's body with his foot, getting a look at the boy's face. The bullet had made a nice, clean hole through his forehead, dripping rivulets of blood that mixed in with the soft tears still running from those wide, rheumy blue eyes.

Ivan catches his breath, realizing that, when not moving his obnoxious mouth, the boy looks much like his mother. Same blue eyes, same golden hair, same facial structure, same nose and lips. Same need for glasses. Everything is the same, save for the fact that Alfred now has a hole plowed through his skull.

Ivan grimaces, realizing that it was never something that he will have. He will never look like Alfred, never look like Ms. Jones _son_.

He grits his teeth as he recalled the words that he had cut Alfred off from speaking.

_I love you_.

Ivan growls audibly and kicks the body before him in the side.

_No. He did not. He did not love her._

White hot anger flares again and Ivan rears back and slams the heel of his boot into Alfred's bleeding face, smashing the corpse's nose in. He raises his foot again and again, breaking Alfred's glasses, finally kicking at the head and leaving Alfred's jaw unhinged as he steps back, attempting to calm his breathing.

Alfred's face looks as if a cherry pie had hit it. Ivan feels a twinge of bitter vindication and _triumph_ as he stares at the boy's ruined face.

_He did not look very much like her anymore_.

Ivan would have to dispose of the body somehow. There is a river nearby, he could throw the corpse in there. Or he could burn it.

Of course, the lot itself is out of the way, on the outskirts of town. Ivan doubts they would find Alfred within a day. And by then, Ivan would be long gone.

Before he leaves, he leans down by Alfred's head, next to a circular crack in the asphalt. After a few moments of prying, Ivan extricates the crumpled bullet, still coated in blood. He puts it into his coat pocket, right next to the small bag of crystal. As he is bent, another thing catches his eye. A little golden band, stained with Alfred's blood, sitting a little ways away. Ivan picks it up reverently, wiping the blood off onto his scarf.

The wedding band joins the bullet and the meth in his pocket.

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><p><strong>Um. Okay. This is dark. Even for me. I'm actually a little scared that I wrote this…. is nervous**

**Both of these guys break my heart in this story! Even though Vanya's a murderer and Al's an asshole. **

**For some reason I've been wanting to write Ivan shooting Alfred execution style for a while. I'm really a terrible person for always killing America, poor baby. Someone give him a hug. **

**Ah…okay, no more RusAme angst for awhile now. I have some fluff lined up that I'm going to post later today. **


End file.
